


Built Again

by Zesty_Bill_Clinton



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Body Image, Butch/Femme, Canon verse, Character Study, F/F, Fem!Castiel, Fem!Sam, I have no regard for the plot of this show, Lesbian Character, Past Mentions of Abuse, Past mentions of rape/noncon, back from hell, butch Dean Winchester, fem!dean, genderbent, lesbian Dean, past mentions of sex work, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21992062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zesty_Bill_Clinton/pseuds/Zesty_Bill_Clinton
Summary: It had been three weeks since Dean Winchester had come back from hell. She crawled out of the ground, nails bleeding and her mouth choked with dirt. and now she was asking how
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	Built Again

**Author's Note:**

> In this story both Sam and Dean are cis women, and this story takes place as if all the events up to season 4 have taken place with them as women.
> 
> also cw for mentions of sex work/underage sex work/abuse

¨I told you Dean, I’m not going back”. Sam was standing in the doorway of her apartment building. Dean looked at her sister, chewing her lip, as she spoke.  
“There’s something out there Sam, I know it.”  
“Dean, I want to help you, I do, but Dad’s dead. I know it’s crazy that you’re alive, but I think this should be a sign that we both need to settle down, find a life. This is a chance for both of us.”  
“Find a life? This is our life, Sam”  
“Maybe for you, Dean, but not for me” Sam said.  
Dean went to speak before a voice came from t  
“So you just want to give up? On me, on Dad?”  
Sam shook her head at Dean, realizing there was no talking her out of this.  
“Fine- I get it. But I’m keeping the car. Have fun with your boytoy and your white fucking picket fence Samantha.”  
“Fuck you Dean”  
“Gladly” Dean responded, but Sam had already slammed the door in her face.

Dean trudged back to the car and leaned into the driver’s seat, letting the night envelope her car.  
She grabbed her wallet and counted her cash, $200 dollars plus some change. She had one credit card left from their last hunt, but the likelihood that it would be declined was high enough. Enough for a motel and a beer tonight, she could figure out the rest tomorrow.  
She booked a room on the edge of town and walked across the street to 7-11.  
She threw a pack of beer and a pint of ice cream into her arms. She passed through the small hygiene isle, eyes skimming over the pregnancy tests and condoms before landing on a small hair clipper. It was 15 bucks, expensive for her budget but cheap for these sorts of things. Something in her says “grab it”.  
She places her stuff down on the conveyor belt and hands the minimum wage worker the credit card.  
It declines.  
Dean swears under her breath and hands the kid cash. She knows tomorrow won’t be fun but tonight she’s gonna get drunk and go to sleep.  
She goes back to the motel and puts 5 of the beers in the lukewarm mini fridge and peels open her pint of Phish Food.  
She pops the 6th beer open on the back of her pocket knife blade and eats her dessert dinner with the spoon attachment.  
She sloughs off her jacket and jeans and crawls onto her bed in a tank top and boxers. Some rerun of a 70s show is playing on the tv and Dean doesn’t pay it much attention. The show’s steady noise reminds her of her childhood, like it’s something her dad would leave on for Sammy whenever he went out on a hunt.  
She looks at the small couch besides her, the space where in some other day there might be another bed, another body, there to laugh and share a beer with until Dad came home.  
Dean shakes her head and leaves the memory alone. She grabs her wallet and counts 40 bucks, affording gas and dinner tomorrow might be a struggle, but that’s a problem for tomorrow’s Dean.  
When she was younger she might’ve known how to get money fast and easy, but since coming back from the dead she swore off that shit for good.  
Besides, there wasn’t much of her left to offer, even though creepy old men aren’t often picky. But over the past few years her baby fat had melted into hard won muscle and scars populated more of her body than not. Men didn’t want to take advantage of a 20-something crossbreed that smelled more like old spice and leather than a woman. Dean didn’t think she was a lesbian, didn’t really think of herself as anything, but she had been called a dyke enough time to know what people thought of her.  
When she was younger it was easier to make money that way. Her body was still soft and she still moisturized her hands with hotel lotion most days, pretending she was a normal girl. Her small breasts and malnourished frame even did her favors, as prepubescent innocence can be a turn on in the right corner of a bar. Either way it kept Sammy well fed and safe, which was more than dad’s food allowance (when he remembered to leave one) ever gave them. Sammy hit puberty early, and was always the prettier of the two of them, so it took everything Dean had to keep the creeps eyes on her and off of Sam’s back.

Dean stood up and grabbed the hair clipper off the dresser. She might as well make use of her impulse buy right?  
She stepped under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her dirty blond hair was pulled up like usual until she let it fall down against her shoulders. Her hair was dry and flat due to many years of careless scrubbing with cheap motel shampoo.  
Dean didn’t know exactly when she decided she wanted to cut her hair, but now seemed as good a time as any. Maybe she would lend more credence to rumors of her being gay, but what did she care? With no one to stop her Dean took the knife she usually carried and pressed it against a length of hair. The first chop was deliberately messy, and so were most of the others.  
She let chunks or hair fall to the floor around her, her heart pumping with satisfaction. Of all the adrenaline inducing incidents she underwent daily, it was the simple act of cutting her hair that excited her the most.  
With the longest bits off she stared at herself in the mirror. She looked like a crazy person with frayed tufts of different lengths sticking up at all angles. She looked like a mental patient. She might’ve been a mental patient if there were anyone left to stop her.  
Dean took the clippers and plugged them into the sink’s outlet. The clippers whirred to life and she brought the blades close against her skull.  
When she was done she brought her hands against her close cropped skull. All that was left was a thin veneer of fuzz. Dean tan her hands over her head, far cooler to the touch than she expected. Cool enough to distract from the hot tears pooling on her face.


End file.
